


The Whole World Is a Grave (but Love Exists in This New Age)

by avienexjel



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Tony Stark, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Found Family, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Misjudged tony stark, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Strangers to Lovers, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, evil obadiah stane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avienexjel/pseuds/avienexjel
Summary: The zombie apocalypse has just begun to get worse when Tony's father kicks him out of the house. With no family, friends, or home to return to, Tony travels alone for months when (just his luck!) everything changes. In the span of one fateful day, he manages to a) get himself blown up at a Rite Aid, b) have his life saved by a really hot stranger named Steve, and c) meet (if you ignore the fact that he was unconscious at the time) all of Steve's eclectic and battle-hardened companions.Tony's used to being alone, but he quickly finds that having people to rely on isn't so bad as it seems. And, of course, there's always Steve.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sad because i wanted to name my fic "do zombies dream of undead sheep?" after the popular novel "do androids dream of electric sheep?", but then a quick internet search told me that a book with that title already exists :(
> 
> also i 100% imagine that the tony in this fic looks like billy covington, a character whom rdj plays in air america (1990). steve just looks like a 2000s-2010 chris evans with some slight stubble.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony blows himself up at a Rite Aid.

Tony sighs, staring out of the shelter he's put up for the night. The "shelter" is more of a patchwork tent, stitched together and worn thin from the abysmal weather, but he has had to make do.

In his bag he's got: a canteen full of water, several packs of junk food, a flashlight without batteries, a watch, a toolbox, a lighter, a creased map, Post-its, writing tools, toiletries, and several weapons. He has two guns, both switched to safety because he'd rather not shoot himself in the leg; a couple grenades, which he'd wired together using the electrical supply system at a Walmart; a knife, but he's only used it for eating thus far; and several rounds of ammunition.

He wishes he could return to the mansion for a day, if only to visit his workshop. His weapons have proved effective against the zombies, but given more adequate resources, he could probably build himself a taser and longer-range artillery. Not that Howard would ever let him back into his old home, of course.

He unzips his pack and roots through its contents, carelessly tossing the flashlight aside. The Walmart he'd visited yesterday had been mostly looted when he got there, the fridges empty of their contents and the shelves knocked down, but he'd taken what he could. He removes a bag of hot Cheetos and pops it open hastily, forcing himself to slowly chew and swallow so that he won't end up with a stomachache or a bad cramp. 

It's fucking freezing out, and Tony's hands tremble as they reach into the bag. His fingers are entirely white except for their reddened knuckles, and he can barely close his fingers around the chips. Even though it's mid-March, the wintry weather hasn't yet faded in Pennsylvania. He'd been in Malibu all the way until December, but he's managed to hike all the way across the country, not for any particular purpose except to have something to do. He has no friends, no family, no home to go to except for the one he'd been kicked out of. So, sightseeing it is.

He'd strike up a fire now, but he's wary of the light it would exude, even though he's stationed himself deep into the woods in order to avoid detection by a zombie. He's not sure if these woods were ever ripe hunting grounds, but he knows that zombies usually return to the places they most often frequented when they were human. He snickers, imagining a robust, ruddy-cheeked man in a hunting cap lurching out of the woods towards him. What a way to go – not in a burst of glory as he had always imagined, but assaulted in the middle of a forest by a guy who used to shoot deer for fun.

There's a sudden noise, like the snap of a twig underfoot, and Tony jerks around, his hand already closing around the grip of his handgun. He flicks the safety off with a smooth swipe of his thumb.

Another twig snaps, and then a rabbit darts out of the darkness, its white body leaping nimbly into the clearing. Tony aims the gun for a moment – his mouth waters at the imagined smell of roasted meat – but then his hand wavers. That brief moment of hesitation is enough for the rabbit to spring free of his eyeline, scurrying back into the shadows.

Tony sighs, placing the gun down and clicking the safety back on. He's tried to avoid killing animals since the apocalypse started, not out of some aversion to meat or killing (he's certainly shot zombies) but because he doesn't want to have to cross that line just yet. As long as he sits in his tent and eats chips and roasts a fire, he can pretend almost like he's on a camping trip – like some rich-kid Boy Scout or something. But once he starts derailing from the normativity of his old life, he won't be able to avoid the horrible reality of the apocalypse anymore.

He eats another Cheeto – it tastes stale – and then takes out his watch, fingering it gently. It's a simple thing, a cheap silver wrist watch crafted from spare parts in the shop, but it's by far his most important possession. He would give up his guns before he gave up JARVIS.

"Hey, buddy," he says softly, once he's sure that he's alone in the woods. "JARVIS, you up?"

"For you, sir," comes the tinny voice of his AI, "always." 

Tony clutches the watch to his chest. He'd wear it on his wrist, but he's deadly afraid of it somehow coming loose, or breaking, which would effectively cut off the only means of communication he has. JARVIS is what keeps him sane; JARVIS is what keeps him going. When he'd felt like giving up back in January, JARVIS was there, talking to him, pushing him, being there for him.

Even though his technological prowess is no secret, no one knows about JARVIS except for Tony himself, not even Howard. He'd been somewhat well-known before the apocalypse, both because he's a Stark and because he's a prodigy; and he's been on the news as many times for his engineering accomplishments as for his more raunchy endeavors. However, JARVIS had always been a personal project of his, not a weapons design for Stark Industries or a submission to an MIT robotics competition. He'd built JARVIS, not for his father or his professors or the media, but for himself.

JARVIS isn't helpful in the technical sense; he contains all of the information that existed before the Internet went out, but knowing about the ingredients in coffee or when George Washington's birthday is isn't nearly as important as it used to be. JARVIS can't even track his location without a satellite connection; Tony's had to rely on his pitifully lacking knowledge of United States geography and a good old fashioned map. The AI's data is, however, stored on separate servers housed in the mansion at home, and unless the newfangled energy device Tony invented powers out, JARVIS stays with him.

"I miss you, JARV," he murmurs, even though JARVIS is right here. What he really means is this – he misses building, creating, inventing in his workshop, with JARVIS's soothing voice offering advice and pointing out errors by his side. He misses the Before, even the Before with Howard, because at least then he had a home.

"I know, Sir," JARVIS says, understanding immediately like he always does. Tony isn't sure if the AI really _does_ know what Tony's getting at, hears all the unsaid things he's locked up inside, but even if JARVIS is just parroting a line from a therapy book on the Internet, Tony appreciates the sentiment anyway.

"Can you play some music?" he says, lying back so that he's bisected at the neck, his head sticking out of the tent flaps so that he can stare up at the stars. "You know what I like. Your pick, JARV."

"Certainly," JARVIS answers, and then the soft sound of Fabrizio Paterlini trickles out of the watch.

Paterlini, a pianist, is a remnant of Tony's past with his mother. Don't get him wrong, he's more of a rock music kind of guy – he headbangs to AC/DC and dances embarrassingly to Black Sabbath in the shower and in the shop. But Maria Stark had always loved classical piano, and all types of sheet music, and she had introduced Tony to the instrumental world when he was a child. After she'd passed when Tony was twelve, piano had become his only tie to her, the only way he could drift off to music and still dream of her.

He closes his eyes and drifts for awhile until the chill picks up and he's forced to exit the tent, gathering a pile of sticks and setting it aflame with his lighter. Brushing teeth, check – he's kept up his oral hygiene, even though it's not very necessary in his solitude; he gargles with the barest amount of water from his canteen and then curls back up in the tent again, zipping the flaps halfway shut. 

Piano music is still flowing faintly from the watch, so he places the watch next to his cheek and closes his eyes.

"Good night, sir," JARVIS says, his voice a quiet lull in the dark.

"G'night, JARV," Tony mumbles, and slips into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the morning, he's parched. He sips some of his water, brushes his teeth again, and then packs up the tent, folding it neatly into a compact square before slipping it into his pack. He pees at the base of a tree, feeling oddly like a dog marking its territory, then grabs his backpack and starts to walk. Now that it's daylight, he plans to exit the forest, meaning that he has to be prepared to encounter zombies again.

Gun in one hand and map in the other, he treads through the woods until he reaches the side of the highway he'd been traveling on yesterday. His legs ache, but at least it's good exercise; any softness he'd had before the apocalypse has completely disappeared. Back in the second month, when people were still trying to adjust to the fantastic notion of "zombies" and Howard hadn't yet kicked him out, he'd gone out in his Audi R8 and driven through the city pretending to be a Formula One racer. Those days of fun are long gone, though; none of the cars have any gas left in them and most have been abandoned by the roadside or utterly demolished.

The morning is lovely. The weather is brisk, the sky is a cool blue so pale that it almost appears white. Tony's breath mists out into the air as he exhales. In the distance, the highway disappears into a mass of rolling fog.

It's almost eerily quiet right now; the more months that go by, the less people Tony sees, the less commotion he hears whenever he reaches a big city. According to the map, he's almost to Philly, but in place of the faint hustle and bustle of city life, there's only silence.

The hours go by as he treks along the road. He moves slowly; there's no need to hurry, it's not like he's got anything to run from anymore. He doesn't know how long it's been since he picked up his things and exited the woods, but it's been long enough that his back grows hot and he has to strip off his jacket.

He reaches Philadelphia around noon. The city, just like he suspected, is devoid of sound. The buildings stand tall and proud, old and wretched and beautiful at the edge of the city limits. Checking the map, he realizes he's right at the outskirts of West Philly, where U.S. Route 1 cuts right between two counties. An arch looms high above his head, with a sign mounted on it that reads: _City Ave._

Tony takes a second to scan his surroundings. He hasn't given much thought to what he'd do when he arrived here, having only been focused on the actual getting-there part first. Now, though, he feels a little lost.

He spots a Rite Aid nearby, and decides to check it out. He ran out of medical supplies last week in a fruitless attempt to bandage a scraped knee, and while he's never been big on safety – hell, he built his first-ever robot while drunk – he's taken more care with cuts and bruises since the apocalypse began. According to the news headlines that had run for months before dwindling out, the zombie disease is only effective insofar as it's transmitted via open wounds. That's why most zombies tend to bite their victims once they get close enough – it's quick, easy, and effectively transfers germs.

Inside the Rite Aid, Tony props himself up on a counter, humming a little tune to himself as he stashes rolls of bandages and Neosporin into the front pouch of his pack. He's always been a restless person, twitching and moving and talking to himself, and it shows in the way he drums his fingers along the countertop and taps his feet together. Once he's all set with his haul, he looks around the Rite Aid at the looted shelves and items crushed and scattered across the floor. It's dim in here – no electricity – only lit up by the pale sunlight shining through the glass doors.

In hindsight, he thinks to himself, it's almost funny how much the apocalypse looks like what it is – an apocalypse. Global cinematography certainly pegged the stereotypes on their heads.

He's still thinking about this, chuckling quietly to himself, when there's the hiss of a door swinging open, and then a clatter from behind the counter. 

He turns, immediately reaching for the gun on the countertop – cursing himself because, yeah, the Rite Aid had been quiet, but he'd been distracted; and to make things worse, he hadn't checked the backroom, and who doesn't check the backroom during a zombie apocalypse? – but it's too late. The zombie behind him looms up, his mouth stretched in a ghastly grin as he slams a plastic crate into Tony's head.

His vision whites out for a second and he stumbles to his knees. He doesn't even remember falling, only that one moment he's looking the zombie right in its ugly face and the next, he's on the ground. 

The gun clatters next to him and he reaches out, but the zombie stomps on his fingers and then kicks the gun away. Great – an intelligent zombie. The guy must've turned sometime in the last month, then; he's not stupid or slow enough to have been infected for very long. 

Biting back a whimper of pain, Tony scrambles onto his feet and puts his fists up. He can't ditch his bag; and the zombie's standing neatly between him and the counter. He'll have to do this the hard way, then.

The zombie lets out an inhuman moan and lurches forward, swinging a fist. Tony ducks, landing an uppercut in his opponent's gut. He sweeps his leg out in a kick that sends the zombie flat onto his back and stumbles over to his bag, grabbing it by the straps.

Hands grip around his ankle and tug, and Tony trips, jaw slamming into the counter. He sees stars as he goes down, and, fuck, he is _so stupid –_ God, imagine getting killed by a _Rite Aid zombie_ of all things – 

The bag falls too and lands facing him, still partially unzipped. The zombie crawls onto him, wrestling his legs down, as Tony reaches into the bag – where the _fuck_ did he put his knife, like, honestly – oh, there it is. Fingers are pulling at his hair and Tony twists around on the floor, blinking back black spots, and jams the knife all the way to the hilt into the zombie's chest.

He manages to roll to the side right as the zombie coughs its diseased blood all over where he'd just been. Red spatters the tiles and it makes a desperate keening noise as its hands tremble around the grip of the knife in its body. As it arches in pain, baring its neck, Tony spots the discolored bite in the ruined meat of its shoulder. He quells the chill that runs up his spine at the sight of it.

"Sorry, buddy," Tony mutters. Normally he'd have more respect for the dying, but considering this one's just tried to kill him, his patience is wearing a little thin. He grabs his gun off the floor and flicks the safety off, shooting the zombie in the head.

Tony considers removing the knife from the guy's chest, but ultimately decides to leave it where it is. Without direct entry into an open wound, the chances of contracting the disease aren't so high, but he'd feel pretty stupid if he turned just because he didn't clean the blade properly.

A moan sounds from the back room all of a sudden, and his head snaps up. _You've got to be kidding me._ That better not be the sound he thinks it is, because if there are more zombies in the Rite Aid, Tony is going to be pissed. Like, inferno-blazing, roid-rage, rip-your-hair-out pissed. Not just at his situation but at _himself –_ because, hell, he really should have checked the backroom or at least left immediately after stocking up on supplies.

The door inches open slowly, and Tony cocks his gun, ready to put a bullet in the next zombie's head. 

Instead, he's confronted with an entire outpouring of zombies, men and women alike knocking into each other as they stumble through the doorway. They're moving slowly – maybe the dead zombie had been a lone survivor just like Tony, stepping in to loot the Rite Aid when he'd been ambushed by the hoard – but not slowly enough. There definitely aren't enough bullets for every single one of them.

He'd really wanted to avoid detection in the city, and an explosion is a surefire way to draw the attention of more zombies, but he doesn't have a choice. Frantically, he plunges his hand into his backpack and takes out one of his grenades. He pulls out the pin with his teeth and runs. 

He's at the door when he hears the thudding footsteps behind him. Slamming out of the doors, he pitches the grenade into the Rite Aid, not glancing back to see where it's going to land. He dives forward into the street as a chorus of unearthly howls rises up in his ears.

He lands on his arms and knees and rolls onto his back just as the Rite Aid explodes in front of him. On instinct, he covers his face with his arms and curls himself into a ball just as he's pelted with a shower of glass.

When the dust settles, he finally uncovers his face, propping himself up on an elbow to examine the ruins in front of him. He sees legs sticking out of the rubble and has to swallow back the nausea – like this, the zombies look almost human. 

There's a wet heat spreading on his torso and Tony looks down, paling when he sees the mess that is his chest. His shirt is torn and bleeding through, and when he yanks his neckline down, all he can see are deep cuts and glass shards littering his skin.

His head spins, and his vision blackens so much that he has to lay back down. Great… So this is how he is going to die. Alone, in the middle of a destroyed Rite Aid, surrounded by bodies.

Tony supposes there are worse ways to go. He supposes he'd rather this than turn into a zombie, stripped of his identity and reduced to a mindless cannibal.

He rests his head against the pavement and closes his eyes. The last thing he remembers thinking is that he hopes whoever finds him is kind enough to bury his body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony wakes up and is surprised to discover that he's still alive - even more surprising is the fact that a stranger has, apparently, deigned to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok clint is a little hostile in this because he's one of the people most likely to be aggressive imo, but don't worry, he's a good bro. he gets his redemption. i just like my share of misjudged!tony, not to mention that tony IS another mouth to feed and he hasn't proved yet that he can hold his own. it's an apocalypse, so tensions are bound to run a bit high.
> 
> additionally - the entirety of bruce and tony's exchange about their stem research is BS'd. however, i do love it when our science bros get into lab talk

When Tony wakes up, the first thing he notices is the pain. His chest  _ burns,  _ and he coughs roughly, gagging on bile. He looks around blearily, not really registering anything before realizing with a start that he doesn't know where he is.

The second thing he realizes is,  _ Holy shit – I'm alive. _

He tries to sit up and regrets the decision a second later when his chest flares with pain again. Wheezing, he lies back down, constraining himself to only turning his head.

From his awkward vantage point, he can only see three things – the walls on either side of him, and the ceiling. He's in some sort of storage room, lying on a table; a haphazard display of bloodied medical supplies and bandages lies on a tray next to him. His bag, looking surprisingly untouched, has been discarded against the wall.

Tipping his chin to his chest, he looks down to see that he's been stripped of his shirt entirely. In its place is a mess of fresh bandages that wrap around his torso. 

_ What the hell… _

He scrabbles at the bandages, wanting to see how bad the damage is – it can't be too bad, or he would need surgery; but it's also bad enough to have left him unconscious and bleeding all over the place – when a new voice says, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Tony flinches, head jerking up with a start. He manages to get himself up on one elbow, high enough to see the source of the noise. 

A woman is standing in the doorway, watching him coolly. She has fiery red hair and sharp green eyes and she's absolutely fucking stunning. "Wow," he blurts, because he has no brain-to-mouth filter, and sue him, the pain's making him loopy. "Am I in heaven?"

The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly very unimpressed. "How are you feeling?"

"Um…" Tony glances down again. "Just dandy. Thanks for asking."

The woman walks up next to him and inspects his bandages with a critical eye. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods her head and turns away. "Lay back down. You need rest."

"Wait," Tony says, struggling to sit up again. "Wait! Who are you? Where am I? Why did you save me?"

"My name is Natasha," the redhead – Natasha – says. The chill in her gaze hasn't disappeared, and Tony feels a little bit like shrinking under the scrutiny. "You're in a safehouse. And I didn't save you."

"...Then who did?"

Natasha just purses her lips in a flat line and shakes her head, looking at him like he's the most unremarkable person on earth. "Someone who doesn't know how to let people die." Then she turns around again and leaves.

Tony stares at the doorway that Natasha's just exited, his mouth opening and closing. He's not sure if it's just him, but he gets the feeling that she  _ really  _ does not like him. He's not entirely sure why, though – maybe she's upset that she's had to waste valuable resources on him? Maybe this safehouse is near the Rite Aid he'd blown up, and she's angry that he's drawn zombies' attention? Or, maybe, she knows him from the Before – from before the apocalypse. A lot of people hated him before the apocalypse.

He settles back down on the table, but his mind churns with unease. If anything, he hopes the reason for Natasha's hatred isn't the latter.

During the Before, Tony had been a prodigy, yes, but he'd also been a partier. As the genius son of Howard Stark, a famous weapons manufacturer and celebrity in his own right, Tony grew up in the spotlight. The tabloids were always obsessed with the young Stark who was too rich and too smart for his own good; the attention only increased when he went through puberty and people started to notice him for more than just his brains or father.

He spent most of his teenage years drunk or high or fucking his way through Malibu; and because he was rich, and famous, he got away with it. Most cops turned a blind eye to his wild lifestyle, and he always had his father to bail him out. 

If Natasha has recognized him, and dislikes who he was Before, then that'll make things much more difficult. Then again, her partner or companion or whatever had saved his ass, so hopefully they'll let him heal until he's healthy enough to strike out alone.

Heaving a sigh, Tony closes his eyes again. He's not sure how long he'd been unconscious beforehand, but he can already feel exhaustion tugging at him. He can deal with his new slew of problems in the morning.

With that, he falls asleep.

When he next awakens, he's alone again. His bandages have been changed and there's a jacket pillowed beneath his head, but other than that, he's relatively untouched. He sits up with a groan and is surprised to note that the pain, while still present, is nowhere near as bad as it was the last time he was awake. Maybe Natasha had stuck him with some pain meds.

He gently eases his legs off the table and stands gingerly, one hand on the table in case he collapses. After flexing his muscles and deciding he's okay to move, he walks over to his bag and rummages through the contents to make sure everything's in order. His weapons are missing – makes sense – but his wristwatch is still there, and so is his water.

Pulling out the canteen eagerly – he hadn't realized how thirsty he is up until this moment – he twists off the cap and takes several long swallows. Instantly, his head feels more clear and his body feels stronger.

He doesn't trust Natasha or her companion to go through his stuff again, even if they hadn't seemed to take anything that didn't pose a threat, so he straps the watch around his wrist before hobbling towards the doorway. 

Outside his room is a long grey corridor. There's hardly any light save for what comes trickling down from a staircase at the far end of the hall, so he assumes he's underground somewhere. He's most likely in a building, so this floor is either for storage or serves as a bunker of some sort. Making his way slowly down the corridor, he checks the handles of each room he passes, but they're all locked. 

The stairs take time to conquer, and he has to pause several times when the throbbing in his chest increases, but he finally makes it to the top. He finds himself staring out at the deserted ruin of what appears to be the remnants of a county building.

The building itself is still standing, but shattered glass still litters the floor near the entryway, hinting at signs of looting and violence. There are dried puddles of what is probably blood spotting the marble floor amongst heaps of rubble from cracked and battered columns.

Tony shivers. There's something so eerie about this place, just like there was about the Rite Aid and all the other abandoned places he's visited during his three-month hike across the country. The stillness, the quiet where there used to be noise, unnerves him.

The light tap of footsteps on the stairs is the only thing that alerts him to the person moving behind him. Turning around slowly, he stifles the sigh of relief that bubbles in his chest when he sees that it's only Natasha.

"Good morning," he says brightly, hoping that it is actually morning. Sunlight filters into the building, but it could be anywhere from between late dawn and early afternoon.

"I see you're fit to move around now."

"Yeah." Tony taps his chest lightly with a finger. "What'd you do, shoot me up with the good stuff?"

Natasha's hard look from yesterday returns. "I voted not to waste our painkillers on you, but my companion disagreed."

"Ah, yes," Tony says, "the one who doesn't know how to let people die."

To her credit, Natasha doesn't even twitch at hearing her words repeated back to her. Instead, she shrugs. "We know who you are. We know what you've done. I didn't think you were worth it, but Steve doesn't believe in abandoning someone who could be saved."

"Steve, huh?" Tony says interestedly. He wonders who this "Steve" is, what he looks like – he imagines some rugged older guy, maybe a father figure, with a thick dark beard and caring eyes. His intrigue is almost enough to stop the mild flinch he makes when he registers the rest of the words –  _ We know who you are. We know what you've done.  _ "When do I get to meet him?"

Natasha scoffs. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Tony offers her a fake, wide smile. "I'd just like to meet the guy who saved my life."

This, at least, is true – he would like to thank Steve, maybe find a way to repay him. Quite frankly, he's extremely lucky that these strangers had recognized his face and still opted to help him. Not many people would be willing to spare their resources on a rich, spoiled brat.

"Breakfast is in two minutes," Natasha says from beside him. "The door will be open, but you'll have to settle for the scraps if you're late."

"Breakfast?" Tony says dumbly. For some reason, he hadn't expected these people to feed him, not after having gone through so much trouble already to save him.

Natasha just glares at him and starts walking down the stairs.

Tony cringes a little. He's definitely failing to make a good first impression – although, in his defense, he's starting from the very bottom of the totem pole. He is, however, eager to meet Steve, so after a pause, he hobbles down the stairs after Natasha.

When Tony enters the kitchen, he's startled to see that not only is there  _ actual  _ food – real food, like, hash browns and ketchup and oatmeal and everything – but that there are several sets of eyes staring at him. 

For a second he searches for "Steve," or, at least, the guy he's come to imagine as Steve, but he gets distracted by all the unfamiliar people seated at the table in front of him.

"Um," he says, clearing his throat. "Hi."

The faces that regard him are filled with wariness and distrust. He doesn't blame them, exactly, but he wonders how much of that dislike is because of his reputation and how much of it is because he's an intruder, invading on their space and taking up their time and resources. There's a reason why people travel in smaller groups – at some point, it just becomes easier to only have to take care of yourself and a few others.

The group here, however, is made up of six faces. There's a dark-skinned guy with a rigid, military-like posture; there's a muscular blond with warm blue eyes; a man with a hostile gaze watches him steadily, his shoulders hunched and his dark brown hair tied up in a loose bun. On the other side of the table is Natasha, her face impassive; and she's seated between a rather unassuming man with curly brown hair and glasses and a lean guy with sandy brown hair and a sharp edge to his mouth. The man with the glasses looks oddly familiar, but for the life of him, Tony can't place why he recognizes him.

Next to the man with the straight-backed posture is a seat that looks like it's been hurriedly shoved into place, and at the head of the table is an empty chair. Tony glances around the table at the unfriendly demeanors, and then at the chairs. "So, is one of those for me?"

It's dead silent. After a moment, Natasha nods, so Tony takes his place at the corner of the table. The tension in the room is almost unbearably awkward, but because he's Tony Stark and he's learned how to grin and bear it, he plants his elbows on the table and says, "Hi. I'm Tony. Who're all of you?"

There's a long pause, and then the man next to him coughs lightly and says, "James Rhodes. Or Jim."

"Thor Odinson," booms the muscular blond guy. His deep voice matches his outward persona; Tony will have no problems remembering him.

"James Barnes," says the moody-looking brunet sitting next to Thor. "Friends call me Bucky." The implication that Tony does  _ not  _ have permission to call him Bucky is clear in the tone of his voice.

Tony turns his attention to the people across the table. There's Bruce, and then Natasha, and then Clint. None of them are Steve. He nods at the one empty chair with his chin. "That one's for Steve, then?"

"How do you know that?" the angry brunet says suspiciously.

Tony shrugs. "Natasha mentioned his name. Apparently he's the guy I owe for saving my life."

The others share looks around the table, and it doesn't take a genius to know what they're all thinking. Tony pushes his shoulders back and tilts his chin up even though he suddenly feels very small.

"So. Tony Stark, right?" says Bruce, the meek man with the glasses. Unlike the others, his face is kinder, more curious than hostile.

Tony nods. "Yep. That's me." He drums his fingers on his knees beneath the table.

"What's someone like you doing all the way in Philadelphia?" Bruce asks.

"Thought I'd, you know, see the sights." Tony smirks a little. "What better time to explore than in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, right?"

"Figures," Clint mutters from across the table. "Treating the outbreak like it's a joke."

"Excuse me?" Tony says, raising his eyebrows. 

Clint looks up at him, the set of his mouth hard and angry. "I said, you're treating the outbreak like it's a joke. You and all the other rich folks, holed up in your gated communities and guarded homes while people like us are out here dying and fighting for our lives. So, what, you decided to come out here just to live like the rest of us for a day? Saw your first zombie and freaked out and decided to blow up the block?"

Tony wisely keeps himself from giving a scathing response. After all, this group saved him from what would've otherwise been a guaranteed death. "I've been out on my own for months," he answers stiffly. "I was raiding the Rite Aid. I didn't realize there'd be fifty fucking zombies playing poker in the backroom."

Bruce frowns. "Why come out here?" he asks. The tone is light, but the question itself exudes wariness. "Why not stay home?"

Before Tony can answer, he hears a new pair of footsteps enter the room. He turns, and his breath immediately catches in his throat – because, wow, the newcomer is  _ beautiful. _

He's big and blond and tall, and he's clearly an attractive man, but that's not what captivates Tony most. Instead, it's his gaze – stern and tough but also smart and caring all at once. His eyes are blue, and he's  _ young,  _ nothing like what Tony had expected when he was imagining what "Steve" might look like – but the warmth in Steve's eyes, he'd gotten that right.

"Steve?"

The man nods. His expression is reserved but not unkind. "You're awake."

"Yeah, about that," Tony says. "How long was I out for, exactly?"

"Three days."

Tony whistles, long and low. "Geez. Three whole days. That's sort of a tough blow to my pride."

Steve's mouth quirks in what could almost be the ghost of a smile before he rounds the table and sits down. Up close, he looks even bigger, and his broad shoulders are exactly at Tony's eye level. 

"So," James Barnes says loudly, "what's the situation, Stevie?"

Steve's demeanor changes, the warmth slipping away to be replaced by something more analytical. A thinking face. "A lot of zombies were drawn to Stark's blast," he says. His words lack an accusatory tone, but Tony's face burns red in shame. "The city's crawling with zombies from the next county over. But, for now, we're safe. They're mostly coming from the west and staying there." 

Tony wills Steve to glance at him, if only so he can put on the most apologetic expression he can offer, but Steve's eyes never stray to his. Tony ducks his head, training his gaze on the plate in front of him.

"So, Stark," Clint says, "you never answered Bruce's question. Why'd you decide to come all the way out here? I thought all the mega rich folks were cooped up in their mansions." He says  _ mega rich  _ and  _ mansions  _ like they're curse words, too foul to leave stewing in his mouth.

"Well," Tony says. He bites his lip. It sounds embarrassing and juvenile to say  _ My dad kicked me out,  _ especially because he's technically twenty and a full-grown adult, but he doesn't know what other half-truths he could admit. "Well, I was staying at home initially – when the apocalypse started back in September – but How – I mean, my dad – kicked me out."

"Howard Stark kicked you out in the middle of the apocalypse?" says Bruce.

"Umm," Tony says. "Yeah, basically."

There's a lull in the conversation as everyone pauses to digest this information. Tony wonders what they're all thinking – are they pitying him, poor little rich boy, thrown out on his ass into a world he wasn't prepared for? Or do they despise him even more now, for somehow having managed to survive for so long when he's probably the last person who deserves so many second chances at life? Maybe they're even wondering how despicable he is, that even his own father didn't want him in the house during an apocalypse.

"I basically left on my own, though," he adds flippantly. "Like I said. Sightseeing."

He  _ has  _ enjoyed his newfound independence in a morbid sort of way. There are downsides, of course, like the dangers of traveling (and alone at that) when he could be safe behind the towering gates and walls of Stark mansion. But there is a certain pleasure in having had only himself to rely on and no one around to judge his habits or mistakes.

Tony takes a bite of his hash browns and is surprised to note that it actually tastes...good. He's subsisted off of snacks and long-lasting foods thus far, and while he doesn't actually mind so much, eating only chips and canned corn gets old pretty quickly. His plate is pretty small, ration-sized, but he's long since adjusted to eating only small portions every day.

"It's been ages since I had a normal breakfast," he says through a mouthful of potato. He directs his voice towards the table but he's looking at Steve again. 

"You've traveled far," Thor observes. "Where precisely did you begin your journey?"

"Malibu," Tony replies. "Southern California."

"And you have traveled on foot since then?"

"Yeah." He makes a face. "I hotwired a car, but I only made it to Anaheim before it ran out of gas. No fancy solutions for that."

Steve talks to Tony for the first time, now. His voice is a low, soothing rumble, like he's speaking with his chest. "Have you been alone this whole time?"

Tony nods, shrugs. "Yeah. The quiet's nice. I hate talking to myself, but...it's peaceful sometimes."

"How did you survive for three months on your own?" Clint says incredulously. Tony can hear the underlying question –  _ how did  _ you  _ survive? _

"I adapt easily," he says. "Just because I'm rich, or whatever else you've heard about me, doesn't mean I'm not capable of taking care of myself or handling tough situations." He narrows his eyes.  _ "You're _ hiding out in a safehouse, protected by six other people. I'm not surprised."

Clint sputters. Next to Tony there's a tiny, stifled snort, and he glances up at Rhodes (he's decided he doesn't like the name "Jim") just in time to see the man's mouth twitch.

"Hey now, Clint," Steve says affably, but there's a distinct warning underlying his tone. "We're in the middle of an apocalypse. There's hardly any room to judge."

"Yeah, but – " Clint's gaze darts to Barnes, who has stiffened. "But – "

"Wasn't him," Steve interrupts. His voice is firm. "At least, we don't know for sure. And until we do know, we won't be making any assumptions."

"Innocent until proven guilty, huh?" Clint mutters. "God bless America." He jerks his head at Tony, who's watching the exchange in confusion. "Why don't we just ask him?"

"Ask me what?" Tony questions, at the same time as Barnes says sharply, "No."

"Umm," Tony says. He glances back and forth between the faces at the table. Natasha's mouth is drawn tight, and Barnes looks like a caged animal. "I don't know what it is I did, or if you guys just hate me because I'm bi or a whore or whatever, but I swear I'm not actually that bad." He winces – smooth, Stark, what a great way to prove you're an okay person despite everything. He hopes he hasn't unintentionally reminded them of the slew of sex tapes he's got on the Internet, because he has the feeling the tapes wouldn't impress them. "I've been told I'm narcissistic and don't play well with others, but other than my laundry list of character defects, I'm not  _ evil.  _ I don't, like, beat up puppies for fun or anything."

Rhodes snickers quietly. Tony instantly likes him more – Rhodes might be laughing  _ at  _ him, but the rest of the people here don't seem to know what humor is.

"I'm glad," Steve says seriously, "because I don't tolerate bullies."

Tony glances over. Wow, is this guy ever a walking, talking cliche – but he's surprised to find he kind of likes it. It's almost refreshing, that intense, honest personality. Not that Tony  _ likes  _ morally-uppity people (can't stand them, actually), but after a decade of dealing with plastic smiles and unctuous flirtations, Steve is like a breath of fresh air.

Tony reaches absentmindedly for another bite of hash browns and startles when his fork clangs loudly against the plate. He hadn't even realized he'd already cleared most of his plate; he must've been hungrier than he'd thought. "So," he says, clearing his throat. "Are you guys just...planning to stay here forever? Make babies, plant a garden?" Natasha's glare intensifies. "Or...not. I mean, that arrangement probably wouldn't work out very well anyway. I mean – I kind of have no brain-to-mouth filter, so ignore everything I'm saying. Just – are you guys...settling down here? No Great Migration or anything?"

Steve's eyebrows are knitted together, but he doesn't look like he wants to rip Tony a new one, so there's that. "We've decided to stay here for a week. Then we're heading east, to New York."

"Oh, great." Tony thinks for a second. With any luck, his godfather – Obie – is going to be there, hopefully alive and well. Obie's rich as sin, so he'd probably paid for tons of defense mechanisms in the early stages of the apocalypse. "I'm going there, too."

"Thought you were just sight-seeing?" Bruce asks but without heat.

"Well, yeah." Tony shrugs his shoulders. "But I'm heading cross-country. New York's the most 'cross-country' you can get from California."

Steve hums. "You're an engineer, right?"

"Sure. Genius, engineer, playboy, futurist, whatever floats your boat."

"We do need new weapons and repairs," Steve says thoughtfully. "If I can get you into a mechanic's shop, you think you can manage?"

Tony grins. "Who do you think I am? Of course I can, I'm  _ Tony Stark."  _ He wisely doesn't mention JARVIS, who's still strapped snugly around his wrist. As much as he'd like to show the AI off, he knows it'd probably be a bad idea.

"Oh, you're not thinking of letting him travel with us, are you?" Clint protests indignantly. "This isn't even about Stark anymore, think about our resources! We're going to have a whole extra person to feed and clothe and watch out for. Not to mention, he's injured, so he'll probably slow us down."

"Hey, I injured my chest, not my  _ legs,  _ dipshit," Tony says. 

Steve just sighs. "We'll discuss it later tonight," he says to the general vicinity. "But for now, I don't think it's right to leave someone injured and alone. Especially not when we don't have to."

Tony hides a pleased little smile. At least  _ someone  _ is sticking up for him. He knows that Clint has a point, and he feels rather guilty about coming on as an extra, needy body – hell, he's not even sure if he'd opine differently in Clint's position – but it is kind of nice to have other people watching out for him. To not have to be alone.

"It might be nice to have someone else to discuss science with," Bruce speaks up tentatively. He offers a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Clint. I do agree that it's a lot, taking on another person. But we're a group of seven already. And Stark's written some pretty compelling papers on thermonuclear dynamics."

"Hey, you've read them," Tony says delightedly, studying Bruce more closely. The guy is so reserved-looking that Tony hadn't spared much thought to him, at first. But now, looking at the curly dark hair – the intelligent brown eyes and square jaw – the realization hits. "Wait a second. You're Bruce  _ Banner.  _ Dr. Bruce Banner. The physicist? Groundbreaking theories on gamma radiation?"

Bruce blushes, full on turns pink. "That's me…"

"Holy  _ shit,"  _ Tony exclaims, briefly forgetting that there are other people at the table. "You're the guy who figured out how to artificially age organic materials with the post-irradiation effect!"

"I didn't know you were interested in my research," Bruce says, leaning forward. His eyes are alight.

Tony snorts. "I'm not really invested in thermonuclear dynamics either. But I pay attention when genius pops up in the scientific community."

"I was having some trouble with containing Compton scattering," Bruce admits. "Before the apocalypse, that is."

Tony nods. "Incident photon pathways are easy to map out but much harder to make converge. What did you do?"

"I altered the frequency of the sensor in order to slow ionisation," Bruce murmurs, "to create an inverse Synchrotron effect. But a majority of the mesons disintegrated. I couldn't transfer the relativistic energy to the photons or the electrons would die out."

"You inversed it? That's... _ really  _ smart," Tony says, eyebrows raised. He's a little starstruck to be honest – I mean,  _ Dr. Bruce Banner!  _ The guy is only twenty four, but he's already working on his fourth PhD. He bites his lip in thought. "Did you try accelerating the radiation to send electrons through the Coulombian fields? I know, I know, it's a risky idea – but if you consider mass attenuation combined with Rayleigh scattering, you could potentially strengthen a gamma beam. Then you wouldn't need to control the way the incident photons reflect electrons at all."

Bruce straightens. "That's a shot in the dark," he mumbles to himself, "but, if you're right…" 

"I have no idea what's going on here," Clint interrupts. "Bruce, I didn't know you were this famous."

Tony raises an eyebrow at Clint. He has to physically shake his head a little to jolt himself out of his reverie – Bruce's work is always so fascinating. "He's an absolute genius. He has three PhDs and he's only twenty four. Even I only have one doctorate."

"You know how old I am?" Bruce asks. He's smiling a little now.

Tony beams at him. "Duh. It took me a bit to recognize you, but then – well. I've definitely stalked you."

"That's only slightly creepy," James Rhodes says under his breath, but he looks amused.

"You went to MIT too, didn't you, Jim?" Bruce says. "Maybe you saw Stark around."

Rhodes shrugs. "I was a freshman when Stark was a senior. Everyone knew him. He was like a little celebrity. I didn't pay much attention to the gossip, though."

Tony perks up. "What were you studying?"

"Aerospace engineering."

He holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers. He doesn't have his ring on him; it's somewhere at home, a symbol of his old life and the way he'd left it, but he likes to think he doesn't need it anyway. "Got a brass rat?"

Rhodes smiles for the first time, reaching for a simple thin chain around his neck. He pulls it out of his shirt, and there the ring dangles from it. "Yep. Carry it with me wherever I go."

"What is this rat you speak of?" the big blond –  _ Thor, _ Tony's mind supplies – asks, seeming intrigued. "Is it the jewelry you wear?"

"Not  _ jewelry, _ Thor," Rhodes sighs, like he's had this conversation before.

Tony cleans the rest of his plate while Rhodes and Thor get into a debate about the significance of the brass rat, and about whether it's appropriate to call it a necklace. As he scrapes the rim of his plate with his fork, his breastbone suddenly spasms with a sharp stinging sensation and he hunches over, trying to be discreet as he clutches at his chest. Trying to breathe back the pain, he almost misses the way Steve glances to his chest and then up at his face and back again, expression dark in what almost looks like misery.

Tony forces himself to return to his meal, something sick settling low in his gut. It's not  _ Steve's  _ fault that his chest has been fucked up by glass shards. He'd caused the explosion, after all. He almost –  _ almost –  _ even wishes that Steve hadn't found him…. That he'd died like that, collapsed amongst the rubble, shirt blooming a deep red.

In the Before, he'd never given much thought to his privilege. He'd fucked whom he wanted to, he'd party when he wanted to, he'd go anywhere he wanted to, all without sparing a glance towards the chaos left in his wake. He lived life on the very edge, pushing himself to his physical limits all the time. He'd take benzos and drink; he'd take opioids and drink; he'd mix stims together and go on drug binges and working binges and sometimes both at the same time. 

And through all that stupidity, through all that recklessness and toying with his fragile life like it was a puppet on a string, he somehow survived. And even though he'd been kicked out and blown up and attacked by zombies, he is here yet again, alive. 

There are much greater men than him that have lived better and died younger. Here he sits, though, with bandages on his chest next to the man who saved his life.

He realizes he's just scraping at his dish, now, which has been thoroughly cleaned off since Rhodes and Thor started talking. He puts his fork down and folds his hands in his lap, waiting.

Steve and Bucky stand and start to collect plates. "Want me to get yours?" Steve asks him, so kindly that Tony sort of wants to scream.

"Thank you," he says instead, and hands over his plate. He wonders, as Steve's broad form disappears into the back of the kitchen where the dishwasher is, whether the man knows exactly what it is that Tony is thanking him for.

After breakfast, Tony pulls Steve aside. Steve goes tense at the fingers wrapped around his elbow but says nothing. Tony hastily drops his hand. "Um, I just wanted to thank you," he says quickly, staring up at that very blue gaze. He feels like he's looking up at the sky. "For doing the morally-opposed feat of saving my life."

"You're welcome," Steve says, stilted. Normally Tony would feel a little bit offended, but for some reason, he's not getting any hostile vibes from Steve. In fact, the guy looks rather awkward. "I don't believe in leaving people to die. I would've done it for anyone."

Tony flashbacks to what Natasha had said the very first time he'd woken up –  _ "Someone who doesn't know how to let people die."  _ Clearly that has worked out in his favor. "Well, still, thank you," he says. "I appreciate, you know, still being alive. It probably wasn't easy, getting me all the way here. With me being unconscious and probably bleeding out all over you and whatnot."

Steve's mouth quirks up the barest amount, but Tony counts that as a win. "What kind of person would I be if I'd left you there?"

"A smarter one," Tony says honestly. He has no qualms admitting that he shouldn't be alive, not unless it was for a reason. He'd been stupid, had marched into the Rite Aid like he was invincible, and suffered a high price for it. It'd only been by some ridiculous stroke of luck that someone like Steve had heard the explosion and decided to check for survivors.

Steve frowns. 

"Look," Tony says, before he can somehow piss the guy off further, "all I'm saying is, you definitely didn't have to do what you did. But you did anyway, to honor your insane and ridiculously high moral standards, so I owe you one."

"You don't owe me anything," Steve says slowly. "I didn't save your life so that you'd have to pay me back."

"Yeah, okay," Tony says, "but I'll find a way to make it up to you. Promise." He holds up a finger before Steve can continue with whatever he was about to say. "Nuh uh. You don't get to tell me what to do. I'll find something eventually. What gets your blood pumping, huh? Let me guess – weaponry? Something that makes you feel big and strong, something that makes you feel like you can protect everybody. Sure, fine, easy peasy, I can do that. I'm a Stark, after all. Or – maybe you've got a secret soft side. What is it, then, music, art, reading?" He pauses for a breath and examines Steve's nonplussed expression. Encouraged by the lack of open hostility, he continues. "My resources are limited, obviously, but I can probably get you an audiobook or some good tunes. Not sure what I'd do about art, but I'm sure I can think of something."

"...I like art," Steve says after a beat.

"Great," Tony says. "I don't know much about art, I like looking at it but I can't really find any meaning behind it, you know? But, my, um, my mother, she was cultured, she liked all these artists, Degas and Monet and Klimt. Who do you like?"

"I like Matisse," Steve responds, his voice lilting up at the end like he's asking a question. "Um, off the top of my head, also Kandinsky and Basquiat."

Tony nods, tapping his chin with an index finger. "Okay, okay, I see. Colors, abstraction, that's your thing. Hey, you got a sketchbook or anything around here? Journal to document your travels and whatnot? Steve's Artworks: Apocalypse Edition?"

Steve starts to withdraw, Tony can tell.  _ Dammit, _ he curses himself.  _ Don't ask personal questions.  _

"Never mind." He waves a hand airily. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. I know you've got" – what  _ does  _ Steve have to do now, anyway? – "stuff on your plate. But I  _ will _ pay you back sometime." He offers a cheery grin. 

Steve blinks, and then clears his throat. "Oh, yes. I still have to...check in about…." He seems to lose himself for a moment. Tony waits, patiently – he gets this kind of reaction a lot. "See you later, Stark."

Tony waits till Steve is halfway down the hall before calling out, "Stark is my father. Call me Tony!"

Steve just stops for a second and nods without turning around, and then keeps walking.

Left in the kitchen, Tony glances around to make sure no one else is around before he pulls his left hand out of his pocket. "Hey JARVIS, you up?"

There comes the response: "For you, Sir, always." 

Tony smiles fondly. Believe it or not, but he hadn't actually programmed JARVIS with that response. It had somehow just become a thing –  _ their  _ thing – last year, and he had eventually installed the "JARVIS, you up?" catchphrase into the AI's servers as his activation sequence. JARVIS's response is all himself, though, none of Tony's influence involved. 

"J, I need some ideas," he says. "More specifically, for art. There's this guy and he saved me from imminent death and doom, and he likes art, so I'm trying to figure out what I can do to repay him."

"I am not intending to be a 'buzzkill' as you might say, Sir," JARVIS says, "but I don't believe it would be prudent to repay him through art with your limited resources."

"Well,  _ yeah,"  _ Tony says, rolling his eyes. "That's why I have you! You're going to help me brainstorm."

"Certainly, Sir," JARVIS says, and Tony can detect the dryness in the AI's tone – where J learned _that_ from, he has no idea.

"Okay, any suggestions?"

"Well." JARVIS pauses delicately. "It would be rather helpful if you provided me your location."

"Oh, yeah." Tony winces. He doesn't actually know where he is, but… "Um, it's probably near the Rite Aid that was off of City Avenue. In one of those outdoor shopping mall plazas, on North Seventy Seventh I think. A county building? I'm in some kind of large building. It looks like one of those government buildings."

"You are most likely at the Public Works building located at Overbrook Parkway and Trent Road." Tony makes a mental note to mark that down on his map as soon as he returns to his room.

"What's your idea, J?"

"There is a Blick Art Materials on Sheffield Lane, between Overbrook Parkway and Henley Road."

"Oh. Huh. That was easy." Tony thinks for a second. "Make it easy for me, J. Where exactly is that?"

"Sir…," JARVIS says, sounding faintly disapproving. "Might I remind you that you own a map?"

"Uh huh," Tony says. "How close to the Rite Aid or Route 1 is it?"

"It is two blocks away from U.S. Route 1," the AI answers. "Nearly directly across from the Rite Aid."

Tony winces. Steve had said earlier that zombies were crowding in from the west, most likely flocking to the site of the explosion. While there will probably be masses of zombies on the other side of the highway, he doesn't doubt that there will be zombies near the Blick as well. 

Maybe he should ask Steve about that mechanic's shop now. Zombies should be no match for his weaponry as soon as he gets his hands on some actual tools. In any case, the sooner he proves his worth to the group, the better.

He makes his way back to his room slowly, massaging his chest but carefully avoiding the area where his injuries are located. There is no door – no privacy – so he has to be careful. Easing himself up onto the table, he places his bag next to him and rummages around for his map and a pen. 

He finds the Rite Aid first, then the Blick, and then he goes hunting for the Public Works building. He cringes when he finds it, taking a deep breath. Steve had walked nine, ten blocks to get him from the Rite Aid to the county building. Ten blocks, with Tony unconscious in his arms and zombies heading in their direction. 

Steve had risked his own life for Tony.

Suddenly he feels nausea bubble up in his throat and he dry heaves, tasting regurgitated hash brown on his tongue. He swallows it back down, gagging harshly, and presses his palms flat to his thighs in a futile effort to calm down.

He's suddenly disgusted with himself in a way that burrows down to his bones. A complete stranger, a good and kind and selfless stranger, had taken a chance on him. No one has ever taken a chance on him before. And he hadn't earned this kindness or even deserved it.

Tony presses his knuckles to his forehead and props his elbows up on his knees, breathing hard. In this moment he hates himself so violently that he is suffocating in the sheer feeling of it. He would not have saved someone who was dying; he would not have even hesitated, probably, to leave that person behind. 

And then there's someone like Steve, who had known who Tony was when he spotted him and still refused to let him go.

Tony's hands curl around the map, crumpling its thin edges. He wishes for one desperate second that JARVIS would console him, but he doesn't feel pathetic enough to beg his AI to calm him down. Back in the shop at home, JARVIS would already be able to detect Tony's rabbit-quick heartbeat and shaking hands, but he is not at home and JARVIS is in a fucking watch, for God's sake. He's here on a table in a demolished Public Works building and he should be dead and he feels so very alone.

"J, you don't think I'll keel over or pass out if I walk ten blocks and fight zombies after a mild life-threatening injury, right?"

"I would not advise this course of action. It sounds quite unwise."

"Well." Tony twists his lips. "Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk. Let's see how quickly Steve can get me to a workshop, shall we?"

JARVIS's brief silence resonates disapproval. "Very well."

He folds up the map again and slots it neatly into his backpack between a bag of Lays and his canteen.

"Will that be all, Sir?" JARVIS asks. That's his deactivation sequence.

Tony nods, running a thumb along the ridges of the wrist watch. This is it – this is his whole life's legacy right here on his arm. At one point in the Before, he would've been satisfied with that; but now, he thinks that he could do more. Getting Steve a sketchbook could be a start. "Yeah. That'll be all, JARV."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap is 7k. i really like fics with less (but longer) chapters so i'm trying to do that for this one. also taking online exams is such a mess... i'm posting rn to console myself because i had like 80 technical issues during an important test and i feel really down now about what i think my grade will be

**Author's Note:**

> lol. i've just been really obsessed with tony being in the apocalypse and then getting a found family AH.


End file.
